This will come as no shock to most of you, combined with the equally non-revelatory news that she has weird teeth and no personality.
This week's award goes to Borzuyeh Hirmand, an ignorant cologne-soaked man with the tact and wit of a rabid hyena. Borzuyeh no doubt rapes little children, and one can't help but hope there's a Hell when considering his after life.
When I greeted the table and posited the obligatory-and-completely-insincere question "How are you all doing this evening," Borzuyeh bellowed back with "We're hungry and tired of waiting around for service. Drinks. Now."
I made it clear that I'd watched the host seat Borzuyeh and company (namely, three acne-stricken Armenian bitches with teeth gaps big enough to house a playground for dirty Persian orphans) and that he'd waited a whole 30 seconds for me to approach his table.
"Not looking for a timer, pal, just want some drinks."
"Uh huh," I replied.
Borzuyeh's entourage of ugly selected a predictable bottle of our "finest" white zinfandel.
"Which year?" I asked.
Not sensing my sarcasm, Borzuyeh impressed his bevy of boar-like babes with the tried-and-true classic, "Whichever's most expensive."
"And I want this," Borzuyeh stated while pointing vaguely in the direction of the margarita list.
I work in a barely lit restaurant. For the life of me, I had no idea which margarita the loser wanted. So I asked.
"Which margarita do you want?"
"THE ONE MY FUCKING FINGER'S ON..."
Borzuyeh proceeded to shove the menu in my face while informing me that he wanted a raspberry margarita, a libation that would no doubt fill the feeble minds of his gypsy slut fan club with questions about his hairy-back masculinity.
All throughout dinner and subsequent rounds of drinks, Borzuyeh didn't miss a chance to bring up the "menu incident" with his "blind server." I responded by glaring and clearing half-eaten plates without bothering to ask if Esmerelda and her sisters were finished consuming.
Thus, Borzuyeh Hirmand has the dubious distinction of winning the first-ever Shit Tipper of the Week Award.
PERCENT: approximately five percent
As a server, a certain sight can strike the fear of God deep into my hateful heart...namely, the site of a host or hostess setting up a large party in my section.
It's not that I can't hang with a large group. Regardless of what a rookie waiter might tell you, most servers worth their wages can deftly handle the pressure of a few extra people.
No, no. The nausea induced by big groups stems solely from the fact that I can't stand people. Multiply the obnoxious neediness of a typical guest by the amount of high-maintenance requests and divide by my almost palpable indifference and you've got an equation for disaster.
Last week, one such party wobbled into the restaurant to test my patience and rouse my ire. Eight rotund women of various ethnicities (namely, the ethnicities that servers try to avoid by stacking dirty plates on clean tables) checked into my corner of Hell for a birthday party.
Knowing that fat people love chips and salsa, I prepared four or five baskets and bowls and "greeted" my guests, half of whom were texting and calling their other overweight friends as fragments of food did the Roger Rabbit out of their munching mouths.
I took the drink order, which consisted mostly of blue drinks and cocktails with a lot of grenadine. I didn't bother to see IDs, knowing that the revelation of their respective weights would make me bellow with laughter.
Then I headed to the service station to prepare ice waters. I came back to the table with my tray of eight glasses in one hand and carefully began to set them down. Before I could get the second h20 out of my free hand, one particularly vile and sassy Latina waived her emtpy salsa bowl in my face like she was collecting alms for the poor.
"Yo, I need more salsa."
My insides felt all warm and tingly. A prayer had been answered. This was the chance I had been waiting for to express that I was wholly better than this virus that East L.A. had unleashed in my place of work.
Very, very dryly, I asked, "Do you think I could maybe finish setting down these waters before I refill your salsa?"
Sassy did the one finger across the face, as if to say "Oh no he didn't." I immediately left the table to grab their array of colorful cherry-garnished cocktails from the bar. No sooner than you can say "strawberry daquiri," a manager had been summoned to my table. I joined the conversation a bit late, but heard
"An' he haad an aaaaatt-tude from da start. He don't need to be like that. We want another sar-ver."
Before my timid superior could say anything, I looked at him (while setting down their Midori-laden goodness) and said, "Yeah, it's not really working. Maybe someone else could deal with them? Ladies, enjoy your drinks!"
And with that, I lost my eight friends to my poor co-worker. Over the course of their evening, the finicky fatties sent back five different entrees, went through three more staggered rounds of banana martinis and then split their bill eight different ways.
Sometime later in the evening, I think I was given a lecture about the importance of customer service. Though I can't remember the details of that particular pow-wow, rest assured I'll be a lot nicer next time...
Justin Timberlake and Nelly Furtado are the worst behaved diners in showbiz, according to celebrity restaurateur Guy Rubino. Rubino claims Timberlake insisted on ordering off the menu and Furtado acted like a diva during visits to his Toronto, Canada eaterie Rain. The chef tells The New York Daily News, "Timberlake comes into Rain, doesn't even look at the menu and shouts for random food that we don't make. If he knew what he wanted, why come to an Asian restaurant in the first place? (Furtado) made a reservation for 10 guests. She showed up an hour late with five extra people in tow. For parties that size, we do a prix-fixe type of menu. Nelly objected and was really rude about it. She expected individual dishes to be prepared. Her manager even came into the kitchen and had the gall to say, 'Just f**king do it! I told her that she and her client could just f**king leave." In contrast, Rubino claims Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones were the best guests: "They're very polite. Every time they come in, they pop into the kitchen to say hello. I just love them."
People frequently ask why my bitterness is so acutely pronounced. I know why, and it's not because I was made fun of on the playground. It has nothing to do with thoughtless ex-lovers. I don't even blame my jaded resentfulness of humanity on my religious upbringing.
No, the culprit of my animosity and ill-will is the accumulation of more than 10 years in the restaurant business. And thanks to a recent study by the U.S. Department of Labor, showing that more than 2,252,000 Americans earn livings as waiters and waitresses, I know I'm not alone.
It's not so much that I'm tired of serving people; It's that I'm tired of serving stupid people...rude people...cheap people...loud people...obese people...mean-spirited people...difficult people...condescending people...creepy people...stereotypical people...people with bad taste...dishonest people...particular people...people with a massively unjustified sense of entitlement...and people with screaming children.
As a result, I've become a vigilante at work, seeking to right the wrongs of the ignorant while still maintaining my job. You won't read about me spitting in food (save one trip down memory lane that involves pissing on a chicken, but we'll save that for a blogging session when Mr. Grey Goose is a guest author) or getting into a fist fight.
No, the only thing I'll be serving here is tenacious wit with a side of sarcasm and some cutting remarks for dessert.
Be careful, this plate is hot.